


Bowstring

by Coldsaturn



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, HFN-ish, IMPLIED major characters' death, Sparta AU, Unresolved Romantic Tension, different social classies, enemies to what?, not my usual fluffy smutty happy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-16 11:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2268732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coldsaturn/pseuds/Coldsaturn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the moment Clarke fears that even with a dagger in his chest he would still be breathing and walking.<br/>As he gazes at the horizon, where his group is getting ever smaller, she starts thinking that her Master has lost what makes human a human somewhere in his past.<br/>At the moment she just knows that if she were to try anything, she would be dead before even making the first step.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [viansian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/viansian/gifts).



> **Important information you should check out before reading/as you read it:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [Messenians - Spartiates - Helots - Perioikoi](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sparta)  
> [Krypteia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crypteia)  
> [Hoplites](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hoplite)  
> [Daemon](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daemon_\(classical_mythology\))
> 
>  
> 
>  **Historical disclaimer:** I have stretched the Helots/Spartiates relationship. Helots were used as actual slaves in Spartiates houses, and their women did all the house duties while the Spartans’ ones lived the happy life. You didn’t have country farms/lands in the middle of Messenia which shipped products to their Masters in the main city. That is just a plot point I took advantage of. The rest is as accurate as my Greek History book can be. Still, aside from the armor Spartiates wore, I have just a really general idea of tools and daily life of a 500BC Helot, therefore use your suspension of disbelief and have a nice journey.

When the sun finally breaks the horizon with its first ray, Clarke sighs in relief. Preparing the whole house for their very important guest using only candles had made her head ache, not even mentioning all the corners she had hit while trying to dust the floor.

She wipes the sweat on her forehead with her sleeve, checking that the kitchen is as clean as it can get. Looking behind her, the rest of the household runs from room to room, their anxiousness glowing like the candle in her hand. They fear they will be beaten to death if they don’t finish in time, and Clarke finds herself swallowing a lump of pure rage.  
  
If only they had been given the news faster, they wouldn’t be here, sacrificing a whole night of sleep to make the great Master comfortable during his recovery. She clicks her tongue, feeling like her house is about to be invaded. She had been born here, and had taken care of it her whole life, and yet it isn’t hers. All the work she and the others did always ended up on a distant plate, in the hideous Sparta. Feeding a lazy, selfish, barbarian mouth that hadn’t even shown his ungrateful face here once, despite being always ready to claim the fruits of others’ hard work.

Well, now Clarke will finally see her Master’s face. If her eyes will manage to stay open at all, that is. How are they supposed to find the energy to work for the whole day, without resting? With this sunrise, it makes a whole cycle without any of them closing their eyes or even sitting to take a breath.

_Spoiled selfish prick._

The list of names she has ready for her Master is long and rich in colorful details, and she really hopes to give voice to some of them, as soon as she sees him.

A light tap on the shoulder distracts her from her thoughts, and turning around she finds little Charlotte beaming up at her, her breath coming in quick puffs. “Miss Clarke! I—”

"Hey hey, slow down, brat." Clarke puts her hands on the narrow shoulders, still moving up and down way too fast. "Breathe. What did you see?"

Charlotte opens up in an excited smile, and Clarke’s stomach makes its home at her knees. “They’re arriving! I saw the horses at the temple!”

Closing her eyes, she forces herself to draw a steady breath, straightens her spine and calls with all her voice. “Everyone gather in line at the front, they’re here!!!”  
Returning her attention at the little girl, she smiles, tightening gently her hold on her shoulders. “Go with the others, you don’t want to miss Master’s arrival, do you?”

She shakes her head so much that Clarke fears the pins keeping her hair in order will snap away, but miraculously they stay in place, and Charlotte disappears in less than a second.

Covering her mouth with her hand, Clarke tries to find the will to fake the same kind of excitement. She should greet him with a thankful and sweet smile, but for all the gods in the Olympus, she can’t put a smile on her face, even if fake.

Raven is running toward the front door when she sees Clarke in the kitchen and changes direction so smoothly that it seems like it was her intention from the very beginning.

"Hey, are you feeling ill?"

Raven’s eyes are huge pools of worry, and truth starts spilling out of Clarke’s mouth. “I don’t know if I can do it, Rav.” Admitting it pulls some kind of lever inside her, and she starts shaking. “As soon as I see him…” The pause makes Raven tilt her head. “I’m going to kill him.”

"Not in front of the guards, you’ll be the death of all of us!" She hisses, dropping her voice. Clarke feels the urge to hug her, because she hasn’t doubted even for a second that the threat was in vain. Of course she knows how much Clarke has fantasized about avenging her father’s death in all these years. How many times they had discussed the absurd control that Sparta was keeping over their land, how easy overpowering a bunch of Spartiates had to be, when their people, the Messenians, were so many. How many nights they had spent gazing at the horizon, waiting for the Spartan’s army to show up and finally kill them, every time a group of Messenians rebelled and lost against the main country. How many times they had wondered how was it possible for a single polis to be that strong, what had they done to gain the gods’ favor.

"Two days with all his personal guards, and then who knows how many weeks with him, pretending to be his compliant and submissive slave?" Clarke spits the last word as if poison. "We are no fucking slaves, Rav! And it’s his fault, and all his people’s fault that my fath-" When she feels Raven’s arms drawing her near, she realizes that she’s broken down crying.

"Gods damn it!" Forcing her breath to stop pushing tears out of her eyes, she leans her head on her friend’s shoulder, borrowing as much strength from her as she can.

"Shhh," Raven soothes her, "please don’t cry or I’ll cry, and this is hard enough without you doing that."

Clarke muffles a laugh on her shoulders and pushes slightly, letting her friend know that she’s calming down. “We can’t have you crying, you’re the prettiest and we need to make him fall head over heels for you so we can poison him in his sleep.”

"Or strangle him." Raven suggests, taking her hand and leading her out of the house.

"I fear I’m not strong enough for that." As they walk over the threshold Clarke remembers that her cheeks are still wet, and quickly dries them with her hands.

"We can cut his penis off and choke him with it."

Finn, having clearly finished with the sheep on the back and already standing in line, chooses that moment to pay attention to them, and he blanches. Clarke winks at him, trying to make fun of the obvious fact that they are conspiring about the assassination of their Master.  
"I like how your mind works."

"Of course you do, I’m awesome." Raven replies quickly, standing next to Finn and looking at the cloud of dust the carriage and the horses are leaving behind. They will be at their door in less than ten minutes, and Clarke feels the cold settling her nerves, relaxing her face in a perfect mask, forging her spine in iron. She can do this, and she will do this.

Clarke walks toward the earthy storm, feeling the horses’ hoofs battering a regular rhythm against her feet, growing stronger and louder till her whole body is feeling their coming.

The Spartans slow down as they enter their territory. They’re at least mindful enough not to make their passage ruin their cultivations. They will be eating that, after all. The sun is still painting everything in light orange, and its rays obliquely hit the red tunics the group so proudly wear, the color of blood chosen for the Spartiates, the real Spartans. The worthy ones.  
If the world spun as Clarke wished, after she’d finished with them no one would be able to tell if the red on their clothes was just dye anymore.  
  
As the horse at the head of the group stops next to her, Clarke hears angry voices coming from the back, from where the carriage is. She resists the urge to turn around and see what’s happening, not wanting to lower her defenses when she has an armed Spartiate next to her. He doesn’t even look at her though, just swiftly moves his leg over the back of the horse, gripping the saddle until his feet touch the ground. She takes advantage of this moment to glance at her left, where the voices keep on raising as if a fight is taking place.  
  
Two men are looming over the side entrance of the carriage, the muscles of their arms glistening with sweat as they seem to be struggling with whatever resistance they’re encountering inside of the wooden cart. She goes back to the man next to her, who’s just now touched ground with both feet. He brushes his short brown hair with his hand, and someone shouting “Get it off, GET IT OFF!” from the brawl on the back draws a sigh out of his full mouth.  
  
Clarke doesn’t know if she has to say anything, it’s her first time meeting the ‘upper class’ and it’s not like they give you lessons in proper manner for this kind of events. Spartiates don’t usually come here, aside from their disgusting initiations, and she doesn’t remember ever hearing someone local talking about meeting their Master. This is definitely unusual, and for a moment Clarke thinks that Sparta is trying to punish her Master by sending him here.  
  
“Everything fine there?” The man in front of her asks, receiving grunts and then a muffled “You’ll pay for this.” from the inside of the carriage, which gets opened by the two men who were fighting with its inhabitant, and she finally gets to see him. Keeping her guard with the nearest hoplite is impossible as her attention gets mightily diverted when a leg plastered with wooden sticks fluctuates out of the side door, before the rest of its body jumps out.  
  
Still wearing red, but on a simpler short tunic, the shadow of her nightmares glares at his companions like they have personally offended him. His dark and curly hair cups a face with foreign features, his skin just a shade darker than would be welcome in Sparta. He looks like a Perioikoi, not a Spartiate. He’s definitely not a pure blood.  
  
“You sure you can walk?” The nearest man to him asks.  
  
“I already can’t stand your mug anymore. Get in the house, sleep, and then get the fuck out of here.” He replies, barely looking at him, as he slowly starts limping toward the house.  
The others sigh and exchange looks with each other, probably wondering why they haven’t killed him when they had the chance. No wait, that’s just Clarke’s wishful thinking.  
  
Those who were still on their horses get off of them, accompanying the crippled Spartiates at his pace, however slow it may be. Clarke is left behind standing at the side of the road, and she realizes just then that no one has even recognized her existence.  
  
Looking at the front door, just a hundred feet away from her, she sees that the whole household is still in line, watching their every movement. She wonders if they have heard the little fight between the men, and what do they think of their Master, who doesn’t look older than twenty-five.  
As a solid lump settles in her stomach, she realizes that she has been unconsciously calling him “Master” the whole time. She would rather have a name, so she can pair up a pretty insult with it, but it doesn’t seem like the right moment to introduce herself to him.  
  
Limping with an annoyed face, he reaches and passes next to her. Clarke is sure that he will ignore her just like all the others did, so she doesn’t even bother hiding that she’s openly looking at him, but before she’s out of the corner of his eyes, he stops looking ahead and glances at her.  
  
Eyes that match the dark of his hair with the cold promise of death impressed in his pupils, Clarke finds herself numb and completely unable to detach her gaze. In the moment they share the same line of attention, Clarke suddenly knows what it would be like being on the battlefield, two breaths away from death. Why is he still drawing invisible weapons even though there’s no one here directly threatening his life, is a question that unsettles her.  
  
The next step breaks the spell and she’s alone again, feeling shaken.  
Who is she trying to fool? She _is_ a direct threat to his life, even simply by being a Helot. Of course he can’t rest, even with a broken leg in his own house.

  
 _My house, Clarke. MY house._

  
Clarke has no intention whatsoever to sympathize with the enemy, but she can’t completely ignore the cold shudder still running through her veins from when they glanced at each other—well, she actually pretty much stared. He doesn’t even look like a human.  
  
She follows the group toward her home, and out of curiosity she starts peeking at the other soldiers. It’s extremely easy since everyone is still adamant on not acknowledging her existence, and it doesn’t take more than four steps to find out that even the most slim and not menacing soldier has the same aura as her Master. Everyone seems to be walking like they’re actually seeing another world, like they’re still walking on the blood of their last battle, and they’re on the verge of starting another one.

Clarke quickens her pace, not wanting to be left behind when the lot will meet the rest of the household. It’s her duty and responsibility to act as the host.

When she runs ahead of her Master—why the fuck can’t she stop calling him that?—she feels more than sees his eyes following her. For a moment she fears that he will take offense in her making a show of how a proper human being can run when he can barely limp, constrained as he is. Yet she decides to risk a beating for it anyway, because Raven and the others are looking at her as if she were the only one bearing the sight of the future. Really, she is actually in deep shit as everyone else, and her not-so-serious-but-maybe-a-little-serious homicide plan had dissolved into nothing the moment she had really looked at him.  
  
She surpasses the whole squadron and finally reaches her friends, who visibly relax once she’s with them. Clarke draws a deep breath and turns toward the guests.  
“I’m Clarke, and I’m the host.” Finally the other men deem her worthy of their attention, and once they’re sure her Master is still with them, they stop a few feet from her. “We have five bedrooms ready for you, but you will have to share unless you want to sleep with us in the barn.”  
  
The man who was at the head of the group snorts and raises his arms, stretching. “Actually, I think I’ll just go to the village, fuck some pretty harlot, and then go out _hunting_.” The way he stretches the last word gives Clarke the chills. She’s almost starting to drift into her past, with her father’s voice echoing in the house and ordering her to close the door and not open it for anyone, when his voice breaks her daze. “Bellamy, how many of us do you need here?”  
  
Clarke wonders who he is talking to, but then her Master turns toward him and answers. “None. I want you all gone as soon as possible.”  
  
“You hurt me, brother, don’t you want to celebrate with us my eighteenth birthday?” He clicks his tongue. “They say that the Krypteia here is the best of the country”  
  
The whole world loses heat and she can feel her hands start freezing, when a warm caress saves her from another lucid dream. Raven’s arm takes hold of her waist and she finds herself again.  
  
“Murphy, I want you gone. If the others can disappear with you, then I’ll thank the gods for that.”  
Bellamy’s tone is hard and angry, clearly the result of some kind of conflict happened before their arrival, since Murphy was at the head of the group and Bellamy inside the carriage.  
  
Murphy sneers and another hoplite pats his back encouragingly. “As you wish. We’ll have our fun and then go back home.”  
  
As he turns and gives them his back, without bothering sparing a second glance at what for him are only a bunch of slaves, he slowly makes his eyes drop from Bellamy’s shoulder to his crippled leg. After a sigh that doesn’t sound sincere to anyone, he goes to his horse, followed by the others.  
  
Strange as it is, silence looms over them, even with the noise of the group leaving their house. Bellamy is a single bundle of blazing tension, looking like he might snap and break at any moment. Sending them away hasn’t chased away his demons, obviously.  
  
Raven whispers in her ear that they will go inside and prepare a warm bath for him, light the fire and prepare his breakfast. With a nod from her, she’s left alone with this _daemon_. His back trembles slightly, and he shifts from foot to foot, hissing when he puts his weight on his injured leg. He definitely shouldn’t do that if he hopes to go back walking again.  
  
She kills the thought immediately. He’s the strangest creature she has ever seen, even worse that the stories her father used to tell her before sleep, and she won’t be drawn to that. Still, no idea comes to mind as to how to talk to him and make him at least go inside. Or how to kill him, for the matter.  
  
At the moment Clarke fears that even with a dagger in his chest he would still be breathing and walking.  
As he gazes at the horizon, where his group is getting ever smaller, she starts thinking that her Master has lost what makes human a human somewhere in his past.

At the moment she just knows that if she were to try anything, she would be dead before even making the first step.


	2. Chapter 2

The fifth sun rises from Bellamy’s arrival, and Clarke is again standing in an empty bedroom, the bed still covered with blankets as if the last time it was touched was when Raven and Mira had made it. The brazier at the foot of the bed is extinguished, but the wood is perfectly intact. He simply poured water on it.

  
She doesn’t even have the energy to sigh anymore, and she leans her back against the wall, wondering what is going on in that head of his. Since the first day, Bellamy has refused any kind of treatment. No bed, no warm bath, no fire, no meat. He stubbornly sleeps on a chair next to the front door, with Raven telling her that every two hours he wakes up as if someone slapped him, paces the room and then goes back on his chair for another shift. He washes with the water from the well, which is obviously cold as ice. Clarke is used to it, but why he is subjecting himself to the same kind of ordeal is just another answerless question. Of course the same goes for any kind of heating that could help the muscles in his leg relax, and for whatever food he doesn’t pick for himself from the field.

  
It’s like he’s living alone, ignoring the entire household, and everyday Clarke is a little more angry than the one before. She has lived her whole life knowing that she needs to serve her Master to stay alive, and when she finally meets him she finds him completely independent. She was ready for a never-grown-up child, someone who needed help even to wipe his own ass. She has no way to stand the sight of someone who’s negating the purpose of her not wanted existence.

  
_This has to end now._

  
Clarke quickly goes out of the room and barely manages not to run over Raven, who’s carrying a basket full of fruit. “Hey hey, where are you going?” She calls after Clarke’s back, but it would be a waste of time answering now. In two strides she’s already at the front door and Clarke slams it open, looking around her for a now familiar figure in red.

  
When she doesn’t find him in the front field, she turns to her right, welcoming the red stain next to the well. Another useless thing would be stopping to consider her relief whenever she finds him again, so she just ignores it and walks to him.

  
He’s sitting on the ground, with one knee held high against his chest, the broken leg bent at an angle she’s sure it shouldn’t be at. The angry red color under the sticks doesn’t bode well either.   
“Keep it up and you will have to cut it off.” She says, looming over him and making sure that her shadow shields him from the rising sun.

  
He looks up at her and her heart does a little wild beat. Must be because he’s the only one of his upper and royal and fucking divine class who has ever recognized her.

  
“That’s what I’m hoping for.” He replies dryly, without breaking eye contact.

  
“I don’t mean the cast, but your leg.” Clarke specifies in a tone a little too annoyed for the message she’s trying to convey. She goes to the well and pulls out a bucket full of cold water, trying to muffle the sound of her fatigue as she puts it on the ground. Cupping her hands around the water, she starts dropping the icy drops on his leg, making him jerk.   
“Don’t move, your leg has the same color as your clothes.”

  
Bellamy stands still then, and Clarke resumes her ministrations, not really knowing if she’s helping at all but wanting to do something anyway. Her stomach twists in anger; it’s been five days of constant internal battle between her instinctive desire to help him and her brain telling her that she should let him die and feed him to the worms.

  
_If I help him he will go away sooner._

  
It’s the lamest excuse she has ever come up with, but it has to work until she finds a better one.   
The silence between them is so thick that Clarke is sure she can hear the moment the drops fall on his skin. And that’s something, since she’s almost deafened by the sound of her heart.

  
“How did you injure it?” She asks, hoping to distract herself from her own thoughts, swirling in dangerous and unknown directions.

  
His leg shifts as if remembering the moment it broke, and he hisses in pain. “Battle.” Is the only word he lets slip from his lips, as he closes his eyes against a pain Clarke doesn’t know if it’s eating his flesh or his soul. Of course it was a battle. He’s a Spartiate, is there anything else in his life?

  
“Right, stupid question.”

  
Dropping water on his leg turns into a hypnotic and repetitive motion, and she drifts off in it, losing to her mind as it pulls her back to her childhood, to a happy family, to the nightmares and the shadows under her bed, to her mother and father arguing in the kitchen when they didn’t think she would hear, to her mother and the entire household leaving them to follow her Master’s father in battle, to her father going out the night of the Krypteia to keep the bad men away from her, to her instant fall into adulthood, the new Helots coming to work with her for her now almost adult Master.

  
When she goes back to the present, she finds herself sitting on the ground with the bucket now empty on her lap and her freezed hands inside of it. Half of her dress is humid, the ground darker where the water left the trail of its passage to his left leg. Lifting her eyes, his are already on her, staring blankly as if he couldn’t find anything better to do but he was getting bored of doing it anyway.

  
Clarke presses her lips together, not knowing how to break the awkwardness of their closeness.   
Bellamy mirrors her, resting his head against the well.

  
If any of the others found her slacking off on her work they would never let her live in peace, and yet she stays there, feeling the sun warming her back, staring at her Master with the only pause being the little time it takes her to blink her eyes. And he’s just doing the same, his chest moving along with the air in and out of his body, the occasional gulps making his Adam’s apple bob.

  
There are about a million questions in her mind, but the only one finding life is “What happens if you don’t recover?”. Her voice comes out hoarse from disuse, and she clears her throat.

  
Bellamy blinks twice, losing focus as he thinks of the consequences if his forced imprisonment doesn’t go well. “I won’t be able to fight anymore. And I have no talent for politics. I’m no shepherd, nor tiller of land.”

  
In other words, he will be as good as dead.

  
“Is it that bad? Not fighting? Can’t you just...live?” Clarke asks, not really knowing why she is making conversation with someone she has no interest in understanding. It’s better than staying silent, though. Not even once does she think that she could just as well not be there at all and avoid the problem altogether.

  
“Blood and battle are all I have ever known.”

  
Clarke takes the liberty of feeling pity for him then, when this broken man in front of her confesses of being good for nothing more than killing.

  
“Then you should actually make an effort in recovering.” She says, standing up and putting the bucket back in the well. She looks down at him, now gazing at the horizon with the same kind of distant look the other hoplites had shown almost a week before. It scares her. “Come, I’ll fix you some breakfast.”

  
Clarke holds out her hand to help him stand, and he looks at it as if she had just revealed she had eleven fingers.   
“What?” She asks, daring him to refuse her even when she’s directly trying to be helpful.

  
Bellamy stares at her for another long minute before sighing and taking her hand, using his other to hold onto the well and pushing with his good leg. He weighs more than she expected, but she doesn’t emit a breath.

  
Once standing, his face morphs into the usual mask of pain as the blood goes back into his left leg. Instantly he goes back at his usual grumpy self, and as they walk ever so slowly back to the house, Clarke guesses it’s the pain that’s making him so unbearable. Pain, and the fear of being left with nothing, when no one has taught him what to do with himself when he’s not holding a sword.

  
The crunching under their feet accompanies Clarke’s thoughts, busy on wondering how can she kill something that knows only violence. Surely she can’t just pick up a knife and hope that she will hurt him. He’s friggin’ sleeping following shifts he must have learned for battle, he’s not someone she can overpower. He’s just too strong.

  
She could try and weaken him, though. Literally kill the violence in him, without drawing blood. Push him toward the people he’s taught are his slaves. That would be funny, messing him up so bad that when he goes back in Sparta he won’t know where to turn.

  
At the front door she holds it open so he can go in, and she’s almost sure he’s mumbled a “Gratitude.” passing, but trusting her own mind has always being a delicate topic.

  
Clarke can hear Raven and the other girls chatting and moving objects as they clean the house, while the boys focus on the animals and the fields. It’s her usual daily routine, this time not bringing her any sense of peace or accomplishment, with the constant presence of her Master somewhere in her territory.

  
_I should be defending it, not making him breakfast._

  
She starts by putting a kettle on the small brazier Raven must have brought down from his room, then picks up a knife and cuts two slices of bread. She will cut an apple next, and maybe find out if he likes honey.

  
Not hearing a movement behind her she turns, afraid of not seeing him in the room, but he’s standing next to the table, clutching its edge so hard that his knuckles are white. Eyes shot wide and the strangest expression on his face make her stop moving, wondering if she has done something wrong.

  
Bellamy finally realizes that she’s looking at him, and he clears his throat, moving the chair to sit. “I…” He begins, then coughs again. “Uhm, it’s been awhile since the last time someone has--”

  
 _‘Cared for you?’_ Is on the tip of Clarke’s tongue, and she bites it so hard that she tastes blood.

  
“Your mother?” She asks instead, going back to her apple and suddenly finding it extremely interesting to look at.

  
“I haven’t seen her since I was 8.”

  
His tone fails majestically at hiding his sadness, and Clarke feels a pang in her chest. “How come?”

  
“That’s the age we start training.”

  
Not knowing how to reply, she only nods. The apple is cut in four symmetric parts and she has put some aromatic herbs into the now boiling water by the time she opens her mouth again. “What do you remember?”

  
“About my family?” Bellamy asks, staring at the blazing charcoal under the kettle.

  
She hums in response, wondering if she should offer some milk. “Do you want milk?” She adds in the end, looking up at him.

  
He shakes his head, pressing his lips with the corners slightly pulled up in a faint smile. It’s a silent way to thank her, and it’s also the first time she has seen his mouth doing something other than scowl.

  
“I don’t remember much.” He starts, absent-mindedly brushing his hands on his thighs. “It’s not like she was the one fixing me meals and stuff, we had Helots for th-” He freezes, glancing at her in what looks like a silent question for permission. Clarke covers her hand with an old cloth and pulls up the kettle, filling a cup.

  
“Go on, I know what your people use us for.” Once the cup is full, she begins making her way back and forth from the kitchen table to the one where he is, bringing him the food. In the end she goes back to the brazier and kneels, putting her hand forward and warming them after her brilliant idea at the well.

  
“We had Helots for house duties, but our mother was good with us. It was domestic. Peaceful.”

  
“Our?”

  
“I have a sister. She’s now married to another Spartiate, and lives with him.”

  
“Your father?”

  
“Died in battle.”

  
Clarke slowly closes her eyes, trying to keep her breathing even.

  
“What about your family?”

  
“Mother died with your father, I guess. She was called after him and never came back.” As soon as she realizes that her voice is breaking, she turns it into a colder tone. “Father died during a Krypteia.”

  
What she’s not saying is pretty clear: your fault.

  
Bellamy gulps down the hot water and puts the cup back on the table with a little too much force. “My Father died because you Helots couldn’t help but rebel, again. We all get into training as infants because we need to be prepared for your riots.” When it’s his voice breaking this time, he chooses the angry edge instead of the cold one. “And I got whipped because the Helot I was put after during my Krypteia hit me with a rock and disappeared.”

  
Bellamy turns to Clarke with his eyebrows raised as if he had just made a point, but Clarke stares at him with her eyes wide, not even blinking. She shakes her head ever so slightly, in a voiceless “Well, it’s obvious, what do you expect when you’re hunting down the person in the first place?”

  
He sneers, and Clarke decides that whenever she had thought that she wanted to see him smile, she was being a fucking idiot.

  
“Don’t worry, in the end they got him and peeled his skin off.”

  
He’s so satisfied that Clarke falls back on her ass, sure that she won’t be able to draw a breath ever again. Bellamy puts the last piece of apple between his teeth and stands, limping away till he’s out of the house.

  
Out of the corner of her eyes she sees Raven’s shadow stepping closer. “I honestly don’t know what you’re doing.”

  
Clarke covers her face with her hands and finds them trembling.   
She doesn’t know, either.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's another historical mumbo jumbo for the sake of the plot here. As far as I know, Messenia followed the rest of the _poleis_ with the eat-meat-in-rituals-or-gtfo tradition.

It's the twentieth day and Clarke is standing in the kitchen, sipping from a cup of hot water with mint leaves, as she stares out of the window at Bellamy doing his morning exercises near the well. Apparently every morning right before sunrise he goes out and starts drawing figures in the air with his body, in a slow war dance without weapons that never fails to steal her breath away. Even with a broken leg, his movements are fluid and harmonic, his face relaxed and distant as if he were in a trance.

The first time she had caught him she hadn't understood what he was doing; Finn had been the one explaining to her that he was killing an invisible opponent with every figure, that Spartiates were trained since childhood in repeating an endless dance of death until it came natural and they didn't have to think about it anymore. That she was seeing why a bunch of Spartiates were the Lords of the war. Legendarily invincible. It was all about dancing and being so alone that you didn't have any other choice but become what they wanted. 'They' being Sparta personified.

That had also been the day Clarke had discovered that Finn pitied them. That he thought they were victims of a system they had no way of changing; that they lived their whole life constantly watching their backs; that ever since the Helots had been conquered, they hadn't slept in peace a single night. When Clarke had told him that they could have well avoided invading them in the first place, Finn had shrugged, replying that there wasn't much else to do when their country was poor and didn't give them food. Their only choice had been finding the nearest place that could give them the chance to survive, and that place had been the Messenia.

Finn's grandfather was one of the philosophers of his village, and had spent his whole life passing the disillusioned history of their people, trying to stop the violence with knowledge.

Knowing why everything had started doesn't make Clarke feel better. Imagining hundreds of children being taken away from their families and trained to be hoplites doesn't help her sympathize with Sparta's cruelty. With the vicious glint it puts in everyone's eyes. The thirst for blood, or alternatively the constant terror of losing your life every second.

And above all, watching Bellamy dancing just makes her feel emptier.

Another sip and she tries to stop looking at him, but just then the first ray of light hits the red on his chest, and she's lost again.

"We're not going to kill him, are we?" Raven's voice is no surprise, since she's always the first to wake up after her. All the others will be up in less than thirty minutes.

"He would kill us so quickly we wouldn't even know how we died."  
 _'Just look at him'_ she wants to say. Instead she takes another sip.

"You know, Clarke, I've never seen you like this and I'm starting to worry."

Yeah well, she had given up on her sanity the moment they locked gaze. "I've never felt like this either." She admits, not knowing if the warm feeling in her chest is due to the hot drink or Bellamy lit up in every shade of the orange sun. "I've never met someone like that before."

"You mean someone born to kill our people?" Raven spits out, but Clarke shakes her head.

Raven's hatred was hers not so long ago, but the more she is around Bellamy, the more she falls into a soundless lull, where she can't muster the will to hate nor love. She's scared out of her mind of what's happening to her, because it's like being out of her body and at the same time knowing how much she's losing herself, what has made her wake up every day for half of her life. And all this without being able to do a single thing.

The problem is that hate is easy when you don't know anything about the other. Disgust, Contempt, Disappointment, Anger can be felt when you actually know the other person, but for it to be hate you can only have the one reason to hate them, and nothing more. The moment you start knowing more it's the moment you start understanding, and hate can't breathe when there's knowledge.

Clarke had to learn it at the price of what had given her life meaning and consistency for all these years. Had seen her mind shutter in million pieces and saw them being swept away before she could try and fix herself. Now she understands why Finn had looked like that when he had heard Raven and her talking about killing Bellamy. He wasn't worried, nor shocked of the rebellious plan. He was simply being shaken out of his peaceful numbness, the very same one that has been taking possession of Clarke. He must have almost felt bad for Bellamy; not like he wanted to protect him, but like he could sense that something was deeply wrong in their actions.

That deep wrongness has been a constant whisper in Clarke's ear during these days. Like she can't force herself to hate him again, but doesn't know how to replace that feeling with any other. She's wrong when she tries to relate to him. It's deeply wrong every time she tries to form a contact with him. With his people, with his life, with his culture, with his society, with his beliefs, with his scars, his nightmares, his hopes, his loneliness, his anger, his cruelty.

"He's not human. None of them is." Clarke mutters, struggling out of the fog of her mind.

"Then why can't you kill _it_?"

The question is whispered almost in fear. Clarke knows what Raven is thinking, but she couldn't be more wrong. Clarke has never felt more distant from someone like she does with Bellamy. But her friend deserves the truth just as much as her own soul needs to hear it, to find peace.

"Because I'm in wonder." Only then Clarke dares look at Raven, refusing to acknowledge the hurt in her eyes. Clarke lays the cup on the table, sighing. "I thought I knew the world. I've worked as a slave for my whole life and felt so powerful in my defiance. Still, I've never really met the Other. I've always been among my people, never had to question anything."

Raven lowers her eyes, but Clarke doesn't stop. Can't stop.

"What did I really know about what's out there? About the very same people I so readily judged? I called them _Tyranni_ and yet didn't know a single thing about them. Look at them, Raven-" Clarke stretches her arm, in Bellamy's direction. Raven is still not looking up, but it doesn't matter. "They're not like us. They look exactly like us, but are like nothing I've ever imagined. And Raven, I've only ever felt like this about the gods."

The silence between them brings the noises from the rest of the house, which has started working without them for who knows how long. Clarke is completely lost in her mind, and doesn't know how to ask for help. She can't find the words to make Raven understand that meeting the Difference has changed the way she breathes, and that she's terrorized by what it means.

In the end a fake cough makes both of them jump, and turning around they find Finn at the main table, looking at them with a small tray full of food in one hand, and a cup in the other.

"Care to give Bellamy his breakfast?" He asks, looking at Clarke with a kind smile. She finally feels the weight on her chest lift slightly. Finn understands how she's feeling.

When she nods, Raven sighs heavily. "Sorry, but I don't get you. Kill him, not kill him, do what you want, we would have ended up with yet another Master anyway. Just, don't get hurt." She says before leaving the kitchen so quickly that she jogs more than walks.

Clarke couldn't really expect her to understand her point, but it hurts nonetheless. Especially when losing Raven's support means being completely alone in her turmoil. It feels like her world is being turned upside down, and her best friend doesn't get her. What if this thing actually changes her? Will she lose the people she loves? Clarke doesn't think anything is worth that much. She'd rather stay in ignorance than sacrifice all the good in her life.

But that's the point, isn't it? The certainty in Clarke's mind was ignorance. And it's that certainty that's been eaten away day after day, making her feel light-headed but still sure about her steps; insecure but richer. She was losing the person she had hated for her whole life, but was gaining someone so different from her that she could spend the rest of her days staring at him without getting tired. Much like what Clarke was already doing.

Clarke walks forward and Finn meets her mid-way, offering the tray.  
"I don't know what I'm doing." She mutters, snorting in self-pity.

"You're learning to be a decent human being." Finn replies fast, and if it weren't for the tray and the cup keeping her hands busy, she would have smacked him. Her face is enough to convey the message though, because he smirks. "It's too easy when you're around friends."

"How come he doesn't get to learn as well?" Clarke asks as she walks toward the front door. Finn surpasses her and opens it for her.

"Trust me, he's doing it too."

Clarke doubts it, but she doesn't tell him. The door shuts behind her, closing the domestic noises inside, leaving her in the middle of the music of leaves being brushed by the wind, the rhythmic crunching of feet on the ground, the sheep bleating in the barn. It's the life she's been taking for granted since she's born, and now she gets to wonder how it would be if she didn't have all this.

As she gets closer to Bellamy his movements slow down, and Clarke can almost swear that he's using her steps as guide, because the exact moment she stops in front of him, he neatly closes his figure.

Clarke slightly lifts the little offering in her hands. "Breakfast?"

Bellamy breathes out and nods, closing his mouth to swallow before opening it again. His breathing is coming a little too fast, and Clarke remembers that he shouldn't wear out his leg this way.

"Gods, sit down! I'll wash your leg while you eat."

Bellamy does a little verse from the back of his throat, as if he were starting to talk but had changed idea at the last moment, so he limps toward the well and sits with his back against it.

He stretches out his arms toward her and Clarke gives him the tray and the cup, desperately trying not to drop it when their fingers brush accidentally. Once the food is safe on his lap and the cup on the ground by his side, she retrieves the bucket with the ice cold water, laying it down at his left.

Kneeling, she waits for him to stop looking at her and start eating, before cupping a handful of water and dropping it on his leg. When she does it he shudders with his whole body.

A "Sorry." escapes from her lips before Clarke can ask herself why she's saying it, but Bellamy apparently knows, because he doesn't look surprised.

"No need. Actually, it helps." His mouth is busy chewing a piece of apple, and Clarke smiles at how weird his voice has come out.

He likes apples, she ponders. Such a simple thing on a character so complicated.

"Uhm, I don't know how you do it in Sparta, but we could have meat for dinner if you want. I mean, I know that in many _poleis_ they wait for a religious occasion and eat the sacrifice, but here we usually hunt it." Clarke pours another handful of water on his leg, and he suddenly leans over, startling her.

"You know how to hunt?" Bellamy's eyes are wide with excitement, an expression so open that Clarke wonders if she's looking at the same person from before.

"I-- Yes, I use a bow." She almost sounds like she's justifying herself, which is ridiculous because if anything Bellamy is looking at her like he’s been waiting for this news his all life. Of course she blushes.

"Ha! I haven't used a bow since I was a kid, but I always won in public games and such." Bellamy smiles fondly at the memory, Clarke's knees melting and making her thank whatever god is protecting her that she's already on the ground, because she would have fallen. Hard. He doesn't help when he turns to her, still smiling. "We should have a contest, see if I'm still good with bow and arrows."

Sure, and if he stays this happy with a bow in hand she will end up shooting an arrow at someone from the household. "We can arrange that."

Bellamy grins again, damn him. "Awesome."

Clarke focuses on the bucket, sure that her face is the same color of his tunic. "If I had known you would be so enthusiastic about it I would have proposed it sooner. You never said anything, though."

"You're all always working, and I already have something to pass the time. But it would be nice doing it at least once before I go away."

If Clarke really thinks about it, it's true that Bellamy during the last two weeks has been anything but annoying. After their little confession time on the fifth day, he's been quiet and routine-bound, sleeping on his chair, doing his exercises, breakfast, disappearing for hours in the barn or in the room they prepared for him, then eating dinner, other exercises, then sleeping. And the next day everything all over again. It's just now that Clarke realizes that Bellamy has been making a conscious effort of staying out of their way. And it's yet another detail of him that unsettles her and pushes her out of her comfort zone.

"We will." She answers, surprising herself with how closed her throat is when she tries to think about him going away. Her personal mirror to the Other world. It's a selfish and spoiled thought, but Clarke can't help but feel like it's his fault that she's going through such a life crisis, and he should be taking responsibility instead of thinking of when he will go back to Sparta.

But they still really end up doing the contest in the afternoon, during the break that everyone takes before preparing dinner. It helps that Clarke kills three rabbits in less than an hour after lunch, and their meal is no longer a concern.

They set targets such as cups in the middle of the grass and old clothes hanged on the outer walls of the barn. Most of the household is with them with cups in hand and laughs between their lips, cheering for Clarke because it's easier, and then when Finn proudly declares his male solidarity, others readily join him. The barely contained smile it puts on Bellamy is enough to let Clarke consider losing on purpose.

Charlotte is their referee, jumping excitedly between them and calling Bellamy "Master" like it's what she's always wanted to do in her life. Like it's a substitute for "Dad". Bellamy puts a hand on her head and tells her to count from the sidelines or she will get hurt, and when her eyes go sweeter and calmer, ready to obey the command, he says loudly that he'll probably suck enough to hit Jasper's ass even though he's behind five people. Everyone laughs, with Jasper exclaiming "Hey!" in panic, and just like that Charlotte is happy again, still giggling as she moves farther.

Clarke stands next to him, offering the second bow she's holding. "You're good with kids."

"Used to spend a lot of time with my sister. But then, Octavia was more evil than cheerful." He takes the bow and tests the string, drawing it back with two fingers. When he mocks the correct position, his shoulder blades flex and the muscles on his back and arms become one single bundle of strength, keeping the bow in tension. He doesn't snap the string, instead gently guides it to its original position. When he turns, Clarke doesn't have enough time to pretend she wasn't staring at him, so she just clears her throat and throws a bunch of headless arrows at his feet.

"Do you need something to protect your forearm?"

"Yes, please."

Clarke is surprised by how easily he admits his limits. She steps closer, gesturing him to lift the arm he will use to hold the bow and starts covering it with a rag. The first day he arrived is still clear in her mind, and the idea she had had of him at that time was of someone so stubborn he would have hurt himself rather than admitting weakness. Was it just a show in front of his companions?

In the end Charlotte jumps on the spot telling them to hurry up, and the game officially begins.

As Clarke shoots the first arrow, she knocks the cup so hard it turns upside down in mid air and falls right back in place. The crowd cheers and she laughs, embarrassed by how everyone is whistling at her as if she had shown off on purpose. She wearily glances at Bellamy, who's smirking at her with a smug face.

"We have statues of you all over Sparta." He says, then stands in position with his bow. Clarke has no idea what he's talking about, but she's distracted by his first shot, which misses his cup by a solid three feet. "Rusty." He mutters to himself, but the others kindly cheer for him as well.

Clarke doesn't know how it's happening, if Finn had talked to them, if Raven is joining in, or if they've simply broken the ice with their guest, but she's glad she isn't the only one acknowledging him. Just like he had acknowledged her. It’s exactly like Finn had said: it’s easy when you’re among friends. But what Bellamy has been clumsily giving her during this month is basic respect, even though she’s of an inferior class from his point of view. One has to give him credit for that.

Clarke's second arrow misses its target, and there's more than one gasp in surprise behind her. Bellamy misses his second, but it's more accurate than the first try. Clarke quickly misses her third, and the mutters get louder until Charlotte has to call them on it. Bellamy glances at Clarke for a moment, then shoots his arrow and scrapes the cup. She hears him sigh in relief, then she swiftly points at her cup and mirrors his shot, brushing it enough to make it move.

This time everyone stays silent until Bellamy starts, "Clarke-"

"I want a fair fight." Clarke interrupts him, smiling without looking at him. As fair as it can be with someone who has to push most of his weight on the right leg behind. She hears him huff a laugh and then sigh in defeat.

This time he takes a moment to concentrate, focusing on his target, calculating the trajectory when the right leg forces his arrow to go higher than it should. When he releases the string, the arrow hits the cup and knocks it over.

Clarke can hear Finn cheering first, but then his voice is drowned into all the others'. Bellamy looks at her, his face not smug nor excited, but with a subtle glint lighting his eyes and making his lips look like he's keeping a secret.

"Game on." She says, knowing that she's wearing the very same expression.

Clarke wins for three shots, slightly creeped out by the fact that if Bellamy had been in his full form, he would have probably surpassed her. Charlotte is delighted, her crush on Bellamy so clear that Clarke doesn't know if she needs to talk to her or leave her at her first tragic love.

Because it is tragic. Clarke has not stopped feeling even for a moment that this is the calm right before the storm. That the days will go by and they will soon have to face the reality. But until then, Finn is patting Bellamy's shoulder and Charlotte is tugging at his tunic for attention.

Feeling observed, Clarke turns, finding Raven staring at her with an unusual intensity. Her face is not a complete scowl but it's close enough to make Clarke's shoulders slump. Raven's eyes slightly soften when Mira nudges her, commenting something as she points at Bellamy, but when she looks at Clarke the hard edge in her eyes is back again.

Clarke is doing something wrong, that much is clear. The problem is that she can't pinpoint what it is, and she fears it will be too late once she'll find out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, here are other useful links to fully understand the story:  
> for Spartans' cute way with children -- [Agoge](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Agoge)  
> [Perioikoi](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Perioeci)  
> For Taranto's history (that just happens to be the city I was born in xD) -- [Taras](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Taranto)  
> For Women and Marriages -- [Women in ancient Sparta](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Women_in_ancient_Sparta)  
> For those who want to know the afterstory (I suggest you to wait till you've finished reading, but oh well, do as you please) -- [Battle of Thermopylae](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Thermopylae)
> 
>  
> 
> For spoiler reasons, the historical disclaimer is at the end.  
>  **I strongly suggest you to read this chapter while listening on loop to[THIS](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pkeDBwsIaZw)**

 

It's at the end of the day that Clarke realizes another month has gone by. Just like that. With repetitive routines and actions so familiar that they became rituals; watching Bellamy overpowering the initial feeling of being forced to welcome a stranger inside her territory; Bellamy’s morning dance intertwining the one everyone does around him, with extreme naturalness, as if he were invisible and part of the whole at the same time. All signs that you're taking that person for granted, that you’ve got so used to being around them that you’ve stopped thinking consciously about their presence.

Clarke would dare say that Bellamy has made some friends in the time he has spent here; Finn is more open than ever in showing that he genuinely likes the Spartiate, and they have both taken to the habit of sitting near the fireplace after Bellamy's evening exercises and telling stories until the last coal is cold; Charlotte prepares Bellamy's breakfast every morning and makes sure that he has a brazier near his chair at night, so he won't risk getting ill; Jasper finally defeated his shyness and asked Bellamy to teach him how to use a bow, and half of every morning goes away with his training; the rest of the household, while avoiding open communication, isn't afraid of bumping into him anymore or asking him to move when he's in the way. It's a huge change compared to before, when despite his past efforts everyone used to just wait for him to go away on his own, instead of telling him that he was failing at not being a nuisance.

Clarke has stepped away since their contest, letting the others have enough space to interact with him. It makes her feel relieved knowing that they can live peacefully. She knows everyone was scared of meeting a Master that would have demanded impossible tasks and beaten them just for the fun of it, and they would have never changed that idea if Clarke was near him, "keeping an eye on him". Now they know that he's not just a Master, a stereotype and a category, a closed box of known treats.

The only one who still walks warily around him is Raven, and Clarke knows it's not only because of him. There's always a scowl in Raven's eyes, as if she were chastising Clarke for getting too close to Bellamy, even though in the last month she has been steadily getting farther from him. It's not enough, apparently, but not being around him has given Clarke the opportunity of being closer to Raven again,  and trying to reassure her. At least they have gone back to that mutual understanding that had made Raven her best friend so quickly after she had met her.

If only Clarke could tell her the whole truth.

Because Raven’s been worried about Clarke falling in love with him--she knows that, now that she's had the chance to actually ask her. Because since the moment he had arrived, Clarke's world had been turned upside down, and he had been the only firm thing in all that chaos. He is exotic, deadly, objectively beautiful, blessed by the gods with a strength normal humans just can't understand, and after hearing Raven talk about him that way, Clarke had understood why Raven can talk about Clarke falling in love with Bellamy so easily. Raven's no stranger to those kind of thoughts in the first place.

Clarke would have really liked to laugh when she had caught up with her friend's problem. Because she was being unreasonable--no, Clarke isn't falling in love with him--and at the same time she was finally admitting to going through the same struggle Clarke was in. Bellamy had been touching her as well, Raven _did_ get her. And knowing that she isn't alone in this, that she is changing but her best friend is right there next to her side, is something that makes Clarke fall asleep with a smile every night, wondering what the next day will bring.

But Clarke isn't falling in love with Bellamy. It's actually a lot worse than that.

One can fall out of love. One can turn what had made them think that person was the best thing in the world into flaws they can't stand. Sometimes it's being next to that person that ruins them in the end, and sometimes time is all that it takes.

Clarke has heard stories of separations and new meetings and betrayal. She has never been in love but knows how humans behave around it. That's also why she isn't worried for Raven. Love is good. Love pushes you to be a better person, makes you live harder, and when it dies one can take all that strength they've gained and use it to overcome the pain. Raven will be fine even with a broken heart, she will stay the amazing person she is and her life will go on, enriched by the experiences it encountered. She still has the ground under her feet, and she always will.

Clarke can't say the same. For it's not love what she's been going through--and now she can compare herself to Raven to be sure of that--, she can already feel that there's no escape plan for her. She can't fall out of it.

Because it's not about Bellamy, but the world of possibilities he brought with him.  It's what she has learned about herself and the world. It's not love, it's not like when the other person gets near you and demands a reaction from you, when his soul calls to yours and they dance together. For Clarke there's no joy in union, she has simply drunk everything that makes Bellamy different from her like it was a _pharmakon_ , and is now watching as her body changes with it. She's morphing into someone new, and there's no going back from that.

Bellamy is responsible for it, but even if he were to go away Clarke wouldn’t be able to forget and go on with her life as if nothing ever happened. Because everything happened. The world happened.

It would be good if it were only love. How she wishes it was only love.  


Raven doesn't know that after she goes to sleep, Clarke sneaks out of their room, goes as near to the fire as she can, sits on the floor and eavesdrops on Bellamy and Finn talking.

She feels as if she has lost her chance at getting directly near to Bellamy, so this is the only luxury she allows herself to have. The only intimate connection to that Difference that has come to mean the world to her, that has made her realize that she wasn’t opening her eyes enough to see farther than her nose. Letting their voices calm the cries inside her head, demanding unrelentingly to receive that Otherness, the constant reminder that Clarke isn't dreaming, that there's really so much out there and she only needs to stretch her arm out to touch it.

The stories are riveting, and at times heartbreaking. Finn talks about his grandfather and how he ended up getting exiled because he thought that trying to break free from Sparta was only making things worse. That they were the very reason why Sparta trained children to war. His grandfather talked about Masters treating Helots like slaves, and Helots acting as slaves and using slaves' ways to kill their Masters in the middle of the night. He talked about circles and snakes eating their own tail. He talked about things no one wanted to hear.   
  
Bellamy talks about his training, how they were forced to respond to competition and violence, forced to forget any emotion that wouldn’t push them to draw their sword. How the night of his Krypteia he had tried to fail on purpose and got rewarded with a cracked head and a whipping in front of everyone. He even shows his scars, and Clarke avoids getting caught only because she hisses at the same time as Finn. Then Bellamy tries to lighten the mood by telling funny stories about his sister, his affection for her so thick on his tongue that it changes the sound of his voice. Clearly not everything was lost during his education, and Clarke can feel herself relaxing again, relieved that somewhere in Bellamy's life there's someone receiving his affection. She doesn't know if she thinks of his sister or Bellamy as the lucky one.   
  
One night Finn asks Bellamy if he’s really a Spartiate, and Clarke would like to hug him because she’s been dying to know since the first day. She isn’t quite prepared for his answer, though.

"When we took the Messenia we needed more people to increase our army, but we were also away for the war. So we encouraged our women to have children with non Spartiates, with the promise of giving those children citizenship. Then we won the war, and the polis was full of strangers. The elders decided to send them away."

“Those who were sent away founded Taras, am I right?"

Bellamy smiles almost self-deprecatingly, as if he were telling the story of his own crimes. “Your grandfather taught you well. Yes, they founded Taras. We called them _Partheniae_ , sons of the virgins.” He looks down at his feet, brow furrowing. “But not everyone left. There were some hoplites who had served particularly well during the war, and for them the promise of citizenship became a reality.”  
  
“Did they treat you well, even though you’re a _Perioikoi_?”   
  
At Bellamy’s visible jolt, Finn mutters an apology. If mentioning his original class is like giving Bellamy a physical blow, Clarke can only guess how sore is the spot for him, how difficult it has made his life. Bellamy blinks a couple of times, gulping down what must feel like acid, if his face is anything to go by.

"I've worked harder than anyone and I've earned everything that I own, like a true Spartiate." His voice has an edge that freezes Clarke's blood, and she suddenly remembers that nothing stands between Bellamy and his right to dispose of whichever Helot he wants.

Finn must be thinking the same thing, because he bows his head--such a true submissive action that Clarke stops breathing--and after apologizing again, quickly leaves the room. His feet step on Clarke's dress as he passes, but he doesn't act like he's noticed she was crouched on the floor.

The crackles of the fire become the only sound Clarke can ear from her spot, as Bellamy falls into a tense silence. It's funny how she can just tell his mood. That even as a stranger, even as her Master, she can sense what he's feeling with extreme clarity. Clarke still can't understand the Why, but the What is crystal clear.

"You can stop hiding." It's barely a whisper, but Clarke's heart jumps in her throat nonetheless, now hyper-aware of what could happen to her if her Master got mad because she was eavesdropping. What was she thinking, hiding in the dark and spying on him?

"Clarke..."

Clarke closes her eyes, silently cursing herself, and slowly stands up, willing her legs to stop shaking. The walk from her spot to the chair Finn was occupying tastes of punishment, something that Clarke never really felt in her whole life, despite her condition. She sits, refusing to look up and discover if his eyes are on her, and she admits that not even once has she felt the whip from the Spartan oppressor. The only beatings she's ever received were from her parents, desperately trying to mold her into something more feminine and apt to the work of a house slave. She's entirely too aware of the irony that if she had been born a Spartan, she would have been treated as equal to the men.

"I'm sorry I was eavesdropping." No, she's not. But that's the right thing to say in such a circumstance, isn't it?

"Not a problem, I was telling those stories for you too."   
  
Her eyes dart to Bellamy, her mouth suddenly dry and rendered speechless by his nonchalant confession. She should have known that he would have discovered her right away, but that he would allow her to simply sit and listen to his stories is something she’d never thought of. In the few moments that immediately follow, Clarke drowns in a sea of questions and what ifs: maybe Bellamy would have talked to her too; maybe their distance was uncalled for and she had wasted a whole month; maybe she could ask her questions as well; how long had he known; why hadn’t he said anything.   
  
Bellamy smiles, busying himself with the poker. “If you want to ask, you can.”   
  
At any other moment, Clarke would have had a whole list of questions ready, but at the moment the only thing she can think of is, “Why does that hoplite hate you so much?”   
  
“Who’re you referring to?” He asks calmly, but there’s already that wrinkle between his brows that Clarke has come to know as the perfect hint of his anxiety.   
  
“The one with the Krypteia.” Clarke draws her knees closer and hugs them, shielding herself from the cold coming from the rest of the house.    
  
“When I was born we were in desperate need of new hoplites, and Murphy’s mother gave birth to a weak girl. We both were examined by the elders, and it was decided that she’d be sent to the _apothetae_. She died, and I got the chance to be raised as a Spartiate instead of a common son of a virgin.”   
  
Bellamy ends his answer without drawing a breath, and as soon as his mouth closes, Clarke realizes that her hand is already halfway to his shoulder. She lets it drop, while Bellamy rubs his eyes, then deciding to entirely cover his face with both hands. Clarke stands there, immobilized in that uncomfortable position for what feels like hours, until he relaxes and slumps on his chair. The question was completely wrong. They could talk about their lives for the whole night, and still the most important question would be: why are we doing it?   
And that’s still something she doesn’t know, and she has no courage to ask.   
  
“We used to eat rabbit every seven days. Mum never found out that I was the one hunting them, instead of my father.”   
  
He smiles faintly, doing the smallest shrug with his left shoulder. It doesn’t seem like he’s offended by the change of topic, though, so Clarke goes on. “She was desperately trying to make me act more feminine and I was always forced to wear these ugly and huge dresses in which I couldn’t move. That’s why I’m so good at shooting from a great distance.”   
  
The pride in her voice makes Bellamy turn to her, and Clarke once again recognizes that strange glint in his eyes, the same one he had during their contest. It’s unknown like everything else about him, but somehow she feels that she should feel happy about it. Smug, even.   
  
“In Sparta you would have worn a tunic with long tears on both sides, so you could have run as you wanted.”

Somehow, talking about an impossible past feels like planning a future together, and Clarke blushes violently.

"Oh and I’ve made you something, I was going to put it outside your room later, but since you're already here--"

Clarke stares at him, still feeling her face like it's on fire, and her heart going completely wild in her chest. Why is it that every single time he opens his mouth he leaves her speechless? And since when does he give her tokens? As Bellamy reaches for a cloth envelope she hadn't noticed before and pulls out a wooden figure, her eyebrows shoot upward. And since when does he carve wood?!

Bellamy offers the little figure and Clarke tentatively takes it, paying attention so her fingers won't touch his even by mistake. Let's just add to the endless list of mysteries: since when does she feel self-conscious with him?

She gently taps the carved little statuette, moving it so it gets hit by the light of the fire, and suddenly she recognizes the features of a female archer, with her arms forming a solid line to keep the bowstring tense, her legs spread in a strong and steady posture, her face pointed at her target, whichever it is. Clarke recognizes the ripped tunic Bellamy was talking about, the central hems curved as if the wind was disturbing her. It's the most logical reason why she'd be there, ready to shoot her arrow but still immobile. She's waiting for the wind to pass. It's such a small detail that Clarke marvels at Bellamy's eye for particulars. The woman really looks like she could come alive at any moment, as soon as the wind stops.

Clarke smiles fondly at the female Spartiate, wishing she had that life, that freedom. Turning the figure to look at the details on her back, Clarke sees her hair and freezes. Her own hair. There's no mistaking the length, the curls, even the way she keeps the shortest locks away from her face. She is the wooden woman, and there's not a shudder left in her body to cope with what Bellamy keeps on giving her that night.

But then he says "Artemis.", and her body decides that closing her eyes is the only way to safety.

_"We have statues of you all over Sparta."_

Tears gather in her eyes, and Clarke doesn't know why she can't stop smiling, even if she feels like something is ripping her apart from the inside. It was more than a month ago, and Bellamy must have worked on it for the whole time they’ve barely talked. She had felt alone and left behind, while he had never stopped moving forward. She hasn't lost that strange connection between them, and what's even more incredible is that Bellamy has acknowledged it as well, giving it the right to exist and creating such a small piece of art. Such a delicate thing from someone trained only to kill.

Realizing that she hasn't said anything for quite some time, Clarke blinks, trying to clear her vision from the veil of tears, and beams up at Bellamy, not trusting her own voice to sound anything close to human at the moment.

Bellamy smiles in return, and it's the most open and honest moment they've ever had together.

"I wanted you to have it before I go."

"Go? Go where?" She asks naïvely.

Bellamy waits a few second before answering, choosing to start talking while staring at the slowly dying fire. "I've received a message this morning, I'm going back to war."

None of her frozen baths compare to the cold suddenly gripping Clarke's organs. She mimics a "What?" but no sound comes out of her mouth. Two coughs later she manages to rasp her question.

"We're at war against the Persians, Clarke. We all are. The Persians are invading our land, and the Panhellenic League has voted for a line of defense at Cape Artemisium and Thermopylae, and that's where I'm going with my companions."

"Thermopylae? That far? But why?" This time Clarke can see as her arms reach out for him and she doesn't stop them, letting her hands grab his left arm, looking for a way to make the world stop spinning. Why is it spinning?

"I wouldn't want them so close to this house. The farther the line of defense is, the better."

One look at his eyes and Clarke knows that she has lost him. She won't ever convince him to hide here where he's safe, letting others fight for their lives. Clarke looks down at his leg, which is healing neatly but is definitely not ready to sustain him in a fight, and finally the tears that were vouching for her joy before, now start falling for despair.

"Clarke?"

She grips his arm harder, his face a mask of confusion as she silently cries for his life. Bellamy looks at her as if he couldn't comprehend why someone would ever cry for him, and it just makes her even more sad. A line of defense against the Persian army? She would laugh if she weren't so busy hiccuping.

Clarke falls on her knees at his feet, resting her head against his leg and clinging to him as if her life depended on it, the wooden portrait falling on the floor with a thud. She will worry later about her precious object, right now the echo in her mind is a single litany chanting "Take me with you.", and apparently Clarke gives it voice at some point, because Bellamy inhales sharply and tenses under her hands. It's the first time she has sought his contact for comfort, and it will also be the last, and another warm wave of tears cascade down her cheeks, as if she were pitying herself just as much she was mourning him.

"Don't talk nonsense. You will stay here and go on." Bellamy's voice is hoarse, and Clarke shakes her head against his leg. She already knows that there's no turning back from him.

"I'll go with you." Clarke surprises herself by finding the right motivation to still her trembling lips.

"It wasn't a suggestion. I'm still your Master." Of course now that hard edge is back in his voice, just like when he was talking to Finn. Clarke wouldn’t have expected for him to sigh and go back to a calmer tone, though. His kindness is once again her undoing, has been since the very beginning. "The life you all have here is good. Really good. I've always fought because I didn't know better, but... this time I want to. This time I fight because I want to protect."

A pained moan escapes from her throat, and he lightly brushes her right hand with his own, before thinking better and removing it.

"I expected to suffer my time here, but you have all welcomed me. You all taught me something, and it has been an amazing experience getting to know you Helots. I want to repay this kindness, so let me."

A crack on the floor behind her makes Bellamy sit straighter, and just then Clarke realizes that he was looming over her the whole time, so close that he was making dark where the light of the fire still shone.

Bellamy stands up as Clarke hears Finn's voice, "Go and rest in your room for once, Jasper is lighting some charcoal to keep you warm. We'll take care of her."

And just like that Bellamy leaves the room, without sparing a single word for anyone. Her fingers tingle from sheer want to touch him again and stop everything from collapsing around her.

When Clarke looks behind her, Finn greets her with a little candle in hand, his face grim as if he were losing someone precious too, and right behind him stands Raven, her hand over her mouth and her eyes reddened by the tears. If Clarke can see it despite the darkness, she doesn't want to imagine how her friend really looks. Not that she's that far from her state.

Finn sighs, looking down at her and probably deciding what is the right thing to say to prevent her from screaming. But Bellamy is going to war with this heroic and noble idea he's protecting his slaves, and there's not a single right thing in the world. Not even his kindness, his stupid talent at carving, his knowledge about hunting, his rare smiles, his whole stupid and idiotic presence.

"I--" Raven starts without moving away her hand, "I didn't know that you too..."

It floats between them, the unsaid Raven is so afraid of. The terror that makes her squirm at night with bad dreams, the huge flaw in her calm and green and sunny future.

"Oh Raven, you're so wrong. But I'm sorry nonetheless."

Looking down to distract herself from the misery on her friend's face, Clarke sees the little Artemis. The little godly Clarke.

_There's no going back from this._

And it takes only a moment to decide, after which Clarke is already finding her footing again.

"Finn, I need to talk to you."

 

***

 

The sun rises far too soon, but luckily enough Clarke has everything ready.

The group that had led Bellamy here a life ago will be back at any moment, the whole house is already well awake and storming around. Clarke can hear Charlotte crying as she passes from one room to another, and she can't help but feel sorry for her. There's no adult talk with her, like she did with Raven. No way to explain what is happening and why she’s going to do what she'll do.

Gods, it will be impossible to make Charlotte stop screaming after she finds out.

Monty calls from outside the house, alerting everyone that Bellamy's group has almost arrived, and Clarke hears Bellamy's voice thanking everyone for the warm hospitality, and wishing them fortune with the gods.

The voices of the other hoplites grow near, and Clarke chooses that moment to step out of the room, bracing herself from whatever reaction the others will have.

Silence falls like snow, everyone stopping with arms in mid air if they were moving something, or with their hands in weird positions if they were gesticulating while talking. The hoplites are possibly even more shocked, having just arrived at the door and suddenly seeing the same face they had seen and ignored weeks ago, but now deprived of the curtain of blond hair. They are greeted now with a girl with hair so short that she's feeling the wind against her nape, and is wearing men's clothes, despite how weird she feels walking in them. Finn's stature is definitely bigger than her, and the baggy result is anything but comfortable. Still, Clarke absolutely needs for Bellamy to see her answer.

And there he is, looking at her in what is finally a clear expression of shock, his grip on the bag on his shoulder so strong that his knuckles are white.

"You don't know what you're doing." He whispers, but the whole room still hears it.

One of the hoplites bursts out laughing, which helps the others in breaking the silence by doing the same, but Bellamy literally growls and they fall silent again. He looks at Clarke and she's sure of her choice, her very first choice. Bellamy can say what he wants, let it be the last lesson for him.

"You can't tell me what to do. This--" Clarke passes her fingers through her hair, enjoying the new feeling against her fingertips, "--is exactly what I want. You can say 'No', but you can't order me. So what will it be?"

Clarke stands there waiting for Bellamy to unfreeze, taking advantage of the moment to look around at her friends, still staring at her in bewilderment. Finn will have his hands full for the next days, with all the questions they will throw at him. Raven is next to Mira, holding her hand and clearly not steady enough to keep herself up on her own. Clarke genuinely hopes that she will get over her pain as quickly as she can, because she doesn't deserve to mourn two friends instead of only one, just like she doesn't deserve to crush her love so cruelly. Still, facing the solid chance of dying in battle Raven has cried in her room alone, while Clarke has done this. Must count for something.

"Bellamy, you can't be serious, she's a fucking Helot!" The same hoplite who had laughed first earlier now tries to reason with Bellamy, barely keeping himself from snickering again. Something tells Clarke that they will hear him for the whole trip.

As Bellamy glares at him and then turns to Clarke, she sighs, adjusting the bag on her shoulder. There was never another choice, really.

"Watch your mouth, that’s my wife you're talking to."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical disclaimer:** as usual, I'm completely playing with history. Helots and Spartiates could fuck and have children, but I've never read anything about them marrying (I don't think they would have allowed them). Moreover, Spartiates married when they were 30, so Bellamy is kind of underage for that here, it's all just symbolic and all.  
>  Another fact, Spartiates were paranoid with keeping their line pure, so I can't imagine them taking a Perioikoi and raising them as a Spartiate. Still, history is never white and black and I'm sure that more often than not they screwed up their own rule.
> 
> So yes, I actually wrote an implied tragic end. A very tragic end. Implied major characters' death and all. In a bloody and cruel and painful way, nonetheless. They will suffer. They will feel betrayed, they _will_ be betrayed. They won't ever have that future together etc etc. Forgive me, I'm on my PMS. 
> 
>  
> 
> A huge thank you to [Zoadgo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoadgo/pseuds/Zoadgo), for not killing anyone at work and stay out of jail enough to edit my stories <3
> 
> Thanks to anyone who will read it, comment it, _kudos it_ , ignore it etc.  
> Feel totally free to contact me here or on [my tumblr!](http://coldsaturn.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> Grazie a [Zoadgo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoadgo/pseuds/Zoadgo), who always works hard and fast and is the most amazing beta I've ever had u_u
> 
> Thanks to anyone who will read it, comment it, _kudos it_ , ignore it etc.  
> Feel totally free to contact me here or on [my tumblr!](http://coldsaturn.tumblr.com)


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